Fighting
by mentalsunflower
Summary: While Murtagh travels nightmares plague him at night, haunting him with things he wants but cannot have...for if he does he will be on the wrong side of the light...


**A/N: **Set during _Eragon _while Eragon and Murtagh travel together. 

**Disclaimer: **I don't think I can convey my love for Christopher Paolini as much as I want to. Boo.

**Fighting**

It happened at night.

When even the lightest of moonbeams drifted down past his eyelids, he would awaken. Eyes bursting open, hands grasping for his dagger. Sitting up, panting, drenched in a cold sweat.

Because of those dreams. Those _nightmares. _There was no other word for what happened to him in the dead of night, when the dragon slept, smoke drifting from her nostrils. When his companion—someone like a friend—lay curled beneath her wings.

It would start like every other night. He would try to drift into sleep, but fear of the dream kept him awake for hours. When he finally fell into a fitful space between sleep and consciousness, it came.

He is back at home, back in that empty castle that he was exiled to. Forced to stay hidden, having no friends. Even the servants would reject his words. All because of his _father. _That word didn't even exist to him, not in this dream nor in real life. He is Morzan the Forsworn and always would be, no matter what.

He is sitting in his room, bare but a bed and a flickering candle in the night. He stands near the open window cut into the stone face of the castle, gazing out into the darkening night. He sees something fly across the sky, covering the twinkling stars for a mere second. And in his dream he imagines it is a dragon, coming to rescue him from his prison. He wants to go have adventures like in the stories his mother has told him about the Riders. He wants to be a Rider. To have a dragon. A friend. Because that's all he wants most in the world.

But then the sky morphs and the moon dribbles away, forming a long dining table. The lighting is different; the room is warm and rich, colored tapestries threaded with gold hanging from the walls. Candles laugh in the evening, their flames joyful. Food like no food he has ever seen before is laid before him. He is hungry. At the other end sits a tall black shadow, obscured in the light. He knows it is Galbatorix, even though his eyes can't see.

He reaches for a fork, but the table lurches away and becomes a dragon. A giant dragon, black as coal with eyes burning like red flames. Fire bursts from its nostrils as it glides in the air, its wings almost triple those of the blue dragon he knows in real life. He stands on the back, one hand holding onto a spike on the neck. He is joyful, because he is free of his prison and he is a Rider! He will have adventures and roam all the world. He has a friend now.

But he tries to speak the dragon's name but nothing comes out of his mouth. Fear strikes his heart. It isn't his dragon! This must be a mistake.

"Would you like to be free?" rumbles a voice from behind him. He turns, and Galbatorix is sitting in an ornate silver saddle, eyes hovering between the light and dark of the late night.

He tries to answer, but nothing comes. His thoughts come across though. It is a yes, and something like a chuckle escapes the black cloud.

"Then join me," it whispers in its melodious voice, and in seconds he is no longer on the black dragon, but a red one. Red like a gem, red like the blood he has spilled so many times before. It is even larger than the black dragon, its wings pumping powerfully through the night air. And he knows the dragon's voice and remembers it's name and the two dragons ride off through the moonlit night.

"Join me," the voice says again, and he agrees without hesitation. Because he finally has a dragon and a friend. He needs nothing else in the world.

The cold sweat was dripping past his eyes, down his nose. The dagger was clutched tightly in his hands, so tightly his knuckles were turning a fierce white. He loosened his grip, taking in his surroundings. Saphira was lying on the dirt, tail twitching in slumber. Eragon was there somewhere, and Murtagh felt a pang in his chest. It was a feeling he was accustomed to, since the first moment he saved the boy. Jealousy. Envy. Such a lucky boy and he didn't even know it. A friend, a companion. A dragon. He had it all. He wasn't cursed. Wasn't scorned for life.

Murtagh sighed, running a hand through his dark hair and standing up grudgingly, shaking his limbs to try and wake up. Not those thoughts again. They were dark and only reminded him of his dream. Those dreams he had every night, all night. He didn't know what they meant, but he didn't want to think about it, either. He remembered the time he had been in alliance with Galbatorix, and it frightened him. He never wanted to feel it again, but a lurking emotion in his heart argued otherwise.

_A dragon…_his mind echoed, and he kicked his bag with fury. It spun in the air, narrowly missing Tornac's head. The horse snorted in sleep but didn't stir. Murtagh blinked, sighed, and rubbed his face to try and snap out of it. Those stupid nightmares constantly ruined his mind like this. Twisted his thoughts, led his actions down the wrong path. He hated it so much, but what could he do?

Well, he would sit. Sit and watch the sun rise, nibbling on bread all the while. He would be trying desperately to distract himself, but there was nothing to take his mind off of his thoughts in the empty silence.

But finally Saphira would awaken and she would nudge her Rider to arouse him from slumber. And Murtagh would watch from his bedroll, trying desperately to keep his face cool, flat. Expressionless. Because if he ever let those darker, hidden emotions out, he would become a monster. A monster like Morzan.

He would never be that. Let those dreams haunt him! He would beat them back by sheer willpower if he had to.

That's what he would hope. He would pray. It became his mantra.

And all he could do was try to fight.


End file.
